Some people get so frustrated with
autocorrect that they disable it completely, but then you run the risk of
telling a date that you’ll “be thfre asd oon sa i gte off th trnai.” To which
your date will reply, “Are you O.K.?” And you will reply, “Osrrt. I hvae
agocrructs rurtned pff.” And then you will be single again.
We never know when autocorrect will
decide to insert itself into a conversation. You can think of this as yet
another modern annoyance, or you can do as I do, and embrace the excitement and
wisdom it brings to your life.
For example, last summer I sent a
series of texts to report that my mother was in the hospital after surviving a
“bear” attack. How thrilling this must have been for my friends, who spent
several minutes thinking I was about to relate an outdoor adventure story,
instead of a boring update from a cardiac ward!
Sometimes autocorrect just wants to
provide a bit of inspiration. A friend involved in a group text chat, when
asked if so-and-so had done such-and-such, tried to respond that so-and-so
“probably” did. Her phone had other ideas. “Poetically,” it said. I’ve been
reflecting on this for weeks now. Shouldn’t we all strive to do things
poetically?
Other times, this humble smartphone
feature reveals itself to be a visionary. I once received a text asking if I
had “a papal account.” I knew right away that the sender was trying to get my
PayPal information, but if you think about it, a papal account would
revolutionize faith for millions of people.
Perhaps the clearest proof that
autocorrect is smarter than we are is its ability to give voice to the
voiceless. Cats, specifically. My cat got his paws on my iPhone and managed to
send a text to my husband, and whatever feline gibberish he entered was transformed
into a single, sensible word: Nolan.
My husband immediately understood
this as a conversation-starter about Nolan Ryan, the legendary Major League
Baseball pitcher. The whole thing has brought us closer together.
Last fall, my son, age 11 months, retrieved my
phone from between the couch cushions and sent a series of texts to my brother.
First, four baseball emojis. Then a
beautifully evocative phrase appeared, courtesy of fat baby fingers meeting
autocorrect: “Meg’s bight effigy.”
I have no idea what this means, but
it certainly sounds like the start of something profound. I tried to get the
baby to finish his thought, but he wanted only to put the phone in his mouth.
So, until he texts me otherwise, I’m going to assume he is a genius.
